


Ditto

by darenotlove



Series: SNAFUBAR [6]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Hanson (Band), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darenotlove/pseuds/darenotlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm about to break my own rules and ask him to tell me what's bothering him, but he beats me to it. I feel his shoulder rise and fall heavily beneath my chin, and I raise my head in anticipation as I wait for him to say something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ditto

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little oneshot that has been lingering in my head for a while now. And this week it decided that it NEEDED to be written. I hope it doesn't offend anyone in anyway. I know fandom is a delicate thing, and I'm not implying that I believe any of what's written in this fic might be in any way true or accurate. ;)
> 
> It's set sometime in the last few months (2015). January or thereabouts.

They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I'm sure most women would argue that's not the case (they would probably say that the way to a man's heart is through an organ a little further south of the stomach). But for me, it's often a pretty accurate statement. Depending on my mood and the meal I'm being presented with, good food tends to be the ultimate cure-all for me. If I'm sick, food comforts me. If I'm sad, food cheers me up. If I'm anxious, food calms me down. If I'm happy... well, then food it just a bonus.

I guess I'm what you'd call an emotional eater; my weight has been known to fluctuate during the more stressful periods in my life. Tommy, on the other hand, is less of an emotional eater and more of an emotional drinker. It's not like he has a problem or anything, and he's cut down a hell of a lot the last few years. But an increased number of beer cans and wine bottles in the recycling bin is always a sure sign that something is bothering him. Usually I'll ask him if everything is okay, make it known that I _know_ something's on his mind, and then if he shrugs it off I won't push the matter again. Not unless he starts acting like a dick about it. Most of the time, though, once he knows I'm on to him he'll come to me and tell me what's going on. I just need to give him space to work through it himself before he shares it with me.

And I'm hoping that making one of his favorite foods for dinner won't hurt, either.

It's just after six when I hear the sound of the front door closing, and I smile to myself as I continue mashing a mountain of avocados. It's only a matter of seconds before his footsteps on the hardwood of the dining room floor drift into the kitchen, and I glance over my shoulder just in time to see him step into the room with me.

"Hey! How'd rehearsal go?" I ask hopefully, noticing the way his half-hearted smile falters for a second.

I shouldn't have asked.

"Fine." He shrugs, slowly making his way across the kitchen towards me and peering around me to see what I'm cooking. "Smells good in here."

"It's Taco Tuesday."

"Since when do we do 'Taco Tuesday'?"

"Since I realized it was Tuesday about halfway through making the tacos." I smirk as I lean in and peck him on the lips. "But I think it _should_ be a thing from now on."

He gives a small nod, forcing a little more effort into his barely-there smile. "I never say no to tacos."

Sometimes it's _so_ hard not to pry when he gets like this. But I already asked him if he was okay a few days ago, and I _know_ he knows that I didn't buy his pathetic attempt at pretending everything was fine. All I want to do right now is look him in the eyes and pretty much _beg_ him to tell me why he's been so down lately. But I know him, and I know that won't help. So instead I turn back to my guacamole and try to act like everything it totally fine.

"Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes."

"Okay, well... I'm kinda beat, so I'm gonna go lie down for a-"

"Tommy! You're home!" Viggo comes racing into the kitchen, cutting Tommy off mid-sentence and almost knocking him over with the force of his tackle hug. He hasn't grown very much these past couple of years, so it's like he has the strength of a six-year-old inside the body of a four-and-a-half-year-old. "Come help me!"

"Viggo, Tommy's kinda tired-"

"It's fine." Tommy insists, letting Viggo take him by the hand and drag him away. "I'm not that tired."

"We're playing hide and seek." Our youngest son informs him seriously as they disappear from the room. "River and Penny have been hiding _forever_ , and I can't find them anyplace!"

As soon as they're gone, my own fake smile falls from my face. I hate seeing him like this. And I hate that he won't let me help him, even if it's just by getting the kids to leave him alone for five minutes after he gets home from work.

In the twenty or so minutes between Tommy's homecoming and dinner being served, he and Viggo manage to find (and lose) River and Penny at least three more times. But they all seem to be in good spirits when everyone gathers around the table to eat. Even Tommy's mood seems to have improved a fraction, so maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that he was forced to play hide and seek with them instead of lying on our bed alone.

Dinnertime in our house is always a loud and messy affair. We're not one of those families that bothers too much with table manners (although the one thing Tommy will _not_ tolerate is anyone talking with food in their mouth). There's no rule about only one person talking at a time, even though there probably should be, and nobody cares if anyone has their elbows on the table or eats with their fingers. I know I should at last try to instill some better habits in them, but to be honest it's not very high on my list of priorities. They'll devour pretty much anything that's put in front of them, they don't chew with their mouths open, they say please and thank you when asking people to pass food, and they rarely bicker at the table.

Considering how many of them there are, and how much more chaotic mealtimes could be for us, I call that a win!

Since Jenna helped them with their homework when they got home from school, all that's left to do after dinner is get them cleaned up (especially Asta, who loves guacamole so much that she insists on _bathing_ in it), and give them a couple of hours of our undivided attention. Whether that means lounging around watching a movie of their choosing, or playing a board game, or reading books with them. It's the one thing we try to stay consistent with no matter what each day throws at us; it's as important to us as it is to them.

The entire bedtime routine has gotten progressively easier as they've gotten older. Asta is the only one who really needs any help at this point, and even she's reached the stage of wanting to at least attempt to do everything for herself. Mostly we just have to stand back and make sure that everyone brushes their teeth for more than five seconds. Ezra is always allowed to stay up longer than his siblings, but he at least has to be in his bedroom once they're in bed. Penny hasn't needed to use her special CD or to have me sing her to sleep in a long time now, but she does still prefer to have music playing once the lights are out. And River and Viggo like to pretend to be almost asleep when we come in to say goodnight, but then spend an hour chatting to each other in the dark after we're gone. In return, we pretend to be oblivious to their awful sleep acting and let them do their thing. They tend to stay in bed and keep their voices down to a whisper, so it seems pointless telling them to "go to sleep!" every ten minutes until they actually do.

That's time we could be spending alone together. _Uninterrupted_.

And god knows we need every second of that we can get!

Asta, as always, takes the most time and attention to put to sleep. And Tommy, as always, is more than willing to be the one to provide it. He came up with this thing last year that we refer to as "Frozen in Five". Basically, he tells the entire story of the movie 'Frozen' in about five minutes using nothing but quotes from the film. Some kids might feel cheated by a parent attempting to rush through their most beloved Disney story at bedtime, but Asta practically giggles herself into exhaustion as he impersonates one character after another for her. And I'll admit, I've done my own share of giggling from outside her bedroom door as I listen to his terrible Olaf impression.

It's fun for the whole family.

I leave him to finish putting Asta to bed and head off to finish cleaning up in the kitchen and pour us both a well earned glass of wine. I expected him to come and find me when he was done, but after giving him a good fifteen minutes to do so, I'm forced to accept that he's probably not going to. With wine glasses in hand I make a beeline for our bedroom, but there's no sign of him there, either. The kids rooms are all dark and (mostly) quiet, and the bathrooms are empty. His movie room is still and silent, and so are the studio and the family room. Which really only leaves one place he could be.

It's not like he never hangs out by the pool, but obviously it wasn't the first place I thought to look for him, either. I find him sitting on the edge with Duke lying loyally beside him, his head resting against Tommy's thigh. As soon as Duke hears me open the French doors behind them he jumps up and bounds over to give me a good sniff and make sure I am who he thinks I am, and the commotion is more than enough to alert Tommy to my presence. He doesn't seem surprised or annoyed that I've tracked him down, which makes me feel less intrusive as I let Duke back into the house before slowly making my way over to the pool.

I feel as though I should approach Tommy carefully, like any sudden movement could spook him. Which is ridiculous, because he _knows_ I'm here and Duke already made plenty of sudden movements. There's just something so... breakable about him right now. I have an incredibly strong sense that I need to handle him gently. I set the wine glasses down on the flagstone patio, toeing off my shoes and tugging off my socks before settling myself behind him, one leg on either side of his and my arms wrapped loosely around his waist. I'm not sure if he can tell, but I'm unsuccessfully trying to form some kind of protective shield around him.

For a while we sit in silence, and I watch him watching our feet drift slowly back and forth under the clear blue water, leaving gentle ripples on the surface. As rare as it is to find him out here alone, it's even more unusual for him to have his feet in the water like this. Normally the only way to get him in the pool is if the kids beg him to join them. I love to dangle my feet in like this, but he usually opts to stay dry.

I'm about to break my own rules and ask him to tell me what's bothering him, but he beats me to it. I feel his shoulder rise and fall heavily beneath my chin, and I raise my head in anticipation as I wait for him to say something.

"I'm sorry I've been such a shit lately."

"Not the word I would have used." I smile softly, sadly, holding him a little tighter. "And you don't need to be sorry."

"I've just... I don't know. It's hard to explain." He mumbles, his feet coming to a gradual stop beneath the water. "I guess I've been feeling kinda directionless."

"How so?"

"With work stuff, mostly. It's not like I don't _want_ to play for September Mourning. I mean... the music's okay, and at least it's a gig, you know? At least I get to play. But..."

"But it's not what you wish you were doing."

He gives a faint shrug of his shoulder, reaching for one of the glasses of wine I brought with me. "It's not like anyone else is lining up to have me play for them."

"That doesn't mean you have to accept the first thing that comes along." I assure him sympathetically. "You don't _need_ to work-"

"But I _want_ to. Just..."

"Not with them."

He sighs in frustration, taking a long sip of the wine before trying again to explain himself. "If not with them, who else? All that stuff I did with Brian went _nowhere_ , and Adam's been off playing with Queen. Which is awesome and everything, and I'm happy for him, but like... the longer he spends doing that, the longer it's gonna be 'till he comes out with any new stuff of his own. And the longer that takes, the longer it's gonna take for there to be _any_ chance of us touring or even just doing promo shows."

"I know." I commiserate with a feather-light kiss to the warm skin of his neck. "I'm sorry. I wish I could make it happen sooner. I know it must suck having to wait around like this."

"But that's the thing, though... I _don't_." He declares somewhat bitterly. "No one else is. Isaac, Ashley, Brian, Rick... they all moved on as soon as we were done playing shows for 'Trespassing'. They all joined other bands or whatever and moved on with their lives and their careers, but I'm just sitting here like a fucking chump waiting for Adam's call. And the _really_ pathetic thing is, he might not even want me."

"What're you talking about? Of course he's gonna want you to play for him again. He basically begged you not to quit, remember?"

"Yeah, well... that was a long time ago. Things change. People change."

"What makes you think things are different now?" I ask gently. "Did something happen? Did Adam say something?"

"Nope." He sighs, taking another sip of the wine. "Nothing."

"So-"

"For like two months now. _Nothing_. And I get it; he's busy. He's been recording, and spending time with Sauli, and now he's touring with Queen again. He's in a different city every night, he's basically fronting this giant production of a show for one of the biggest bands _ever_. And he probably gets like dozens of messages a day, you know? He has other people to keep up with while he's gone."

He doesn't say "more important people", but it kind of goes without saying. It's what he's _thinking_ , what he's been thinking for a while, and I feel a stab of guilt in my chest for not realizing sooner.

"I wish you'd said something."

"I didn't wanna be a whiny little bitch about it."

"You're not." I promise him wholeheartedly. "You have every right to feel the way you do."

"No, I don't. And I should just get the hell over it and move the fuck on like everyone else has, but... I don't know _how_." He shakes his head sadly, hopelessly, lowering his gaze to the dark red liquid in the glass he's cradling. "It's like I can't let go."

"Of what?"

"Of what we had."

And uncertain frown creases my brow as I crane my neck to try and get a better look at his face. "You and Adam?"

"Adam, Isaac... all of us. I'd been in bands before, but it was never like that. It never felt like it did during Glam Nation. Everything just _fit_. Every show, it was like we were a bunch of kids on Christmas, you know? Especially me and Adam. It was my first _real_ tour and his first time touring for _his_ music, and it was like one giant fucking dream come true. And now it's like... nothing is ever gonna feel like that again. Nothing can; it's never gonna be the same."

"I know. But that doesn't mean other things can't be special for different reasons. I remember how incredible our first tour was, it was our dream come true, too. And we've toured dozens of times since then, and no tour has ever been like that first one. But there's been something about each one of them that made it stand out in its own way. Whether it was our first independent tour, or the first tour where we started doing the walks with fans... even the Shout It Out tour, which pretty much sucked because we were at each other's throats half the time, was amazing because I have so many memories of getting to know _you_. Of texting you in the middle of the night, and skyping with you from the back of the bus, and you surprising me in Portland, and calling me from Europe for phone sex." He chuckles softly, using his free hand to pull my arms more snugly around him as he rests his head back against my shoulder. "Nothing will ever be like that first tour again, but that doesn't mean it all has to be something _less_."

"But it all _has_ been." He confesses miserably. "And _I_ start to feel like something less because of it. Which I know makes _no_ fucking sense. I guess I just never expected to feel so..."

"Disappointed?" I offer when he appears to struggle with finding the right word to describe his emotions.

"Disposable."

"Tommy-"

"I know you're gonna tell me that I'm crazy, and that I'm not disposable-"

"You're _not_." I insist wholeheartedly. "I know I'm not Adam, and I don't know him _that_ well, but I'm pretty sure if he was here he'd tell you the same thing."

"But it's not him. Not really. I mean, yeah, it sucks waiting around like this, but that's not his fault. I knew what I was getting into when I signed on for this. I'm not in a band, I'm in a backing band. I don't make the music, I play the music other people make. So while other people are busy making the music, I'm out of a fucking job, basically. And I've tried finding other stuff to do. I worked with Monte, and I was in Ravi's band, and then I recorded a bunch of stuff with Mike and then with Brian... and most of it has gotten me nowhere, you know? It was like a total waste of time."

"Not if you enjoyed it."

"I did. But I wasn't just doing it to pass the fucking time. I wanted it to _mean_ something, to go somewhere... but none of it ever did. It's like everything I touch turns to shit."

"Hey!" Letting go of him only as much as is necessary for me to shift out from behind him, I curl my finger underneath his chin and force him to face me. He resists a little, at first, but I think he knows it's pointless trying to fight it, and so eventually he gives in. "I know you're in a crappy place right now, and that's making it hard for you to see things the way they really are. But _I_ see things just fine, and I can tell you that you are _not_ disposable. And just because some things didn't turn out the way you hoped they would, that's not a reflection on _you_. You weren't in control of any of that stuff; those projects were all other people's-"

"Right, 'cause it's _always_ someone else's stuff." He argues sullenly.

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that none of the stuff I work on is mine. I play other people's music, I help other people make their music, but it's not _mine_. And the more I think about it... the more I start to feel like _nothing_ is mine." He tells me, pulling away from my touch and turning away from my incredibly confused gaze. "The music isn't mine. This house isn't mine... even the kids aren't really mine."

Just a couple of years ago, a statement like that would have freaked me out entirely. Alarm bells would have begun ringing in my head, panic would have set it immediately, I would have automatically assumed the worst. But I know better now. I know I have nothing to be afraid of. I know I'm not going to lose him.

What I _don't_ know is how to help him feel better about all of this. I don't want him thinking these things for another second, because they're _not_ true.

"Last time I checked, your name was on the mortgage _and_ adoption papers." I inform him as confidently as I can, even though deep down I know that legalities won't be enough to snap him out of this. "As far as I'm concerned, the house _and_ the kids are _ours_. And you _do_ make music that's yours. You've spent countless hours in our studio the last couple of years, I've got the recordings to prove it."

"But no one wants to hear them. And if they did want to, it'd only be because of you or Adam. Even my fans aren't really _my_ fans."

"That's such bullshit!" I protest adamantly. "Just because most of them know who you are because of your connection to us, that doesn't mean they only _like_ you because of us. They became _your_ fans because of _you_." He gives an unimpressed shrug, still refusing to look at me, and I scowl at him as I try to come up with a different tactic to talk him round. "You know I'm right. Besides, plenty of our fans can't stand you."

He snorts derisively, rolling his eyes at my crumby attempt to persuade him. "Thanks."

"It's true! I can't make someone who hates you like you just because I love you. Your fans are yours, and your haters are yours. I personally think one group has way better taste than the other, not to mention way more intelligence, but I'm probably biased."

"You _are_ biased-"

"So are you!" I accuse him smugly. "You're as inclined to see the worst in yourself as I am to see the best."

"So what's the point in even having this fucking conversation? We're never gonna agree."

"So? There's plenty of stuff we don't agree on, but that doesn't mean we don't discuss it. And most of it is nowhere near as important as your lack of self-worth."

"Just... forget it." He sighs in defeat, setting his wine glass down on the patio and making a move to stand up.

But if he thinks I'm just gonna let this drop and watch him walk away, he's delusional! "It's cute that you think we're done talking about this."

"You might not be, but I am."

"Then be a good little husband and sit the fuck down until _I'm_ done." I instruct him, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him back down onto the pool edge beside me. "I want you to listen to me, because I'm not just saying all this to boost your ego and make you feel better. I mean _every_ last word of it. And it's not because I love you. If anything, I love you _because_ of what I'm about to say."

He's still avoiding my eyes, but now I get the sense that he's doing it because he's nervous rather than doing it out of defiance. It's like he's afraid of what I might say, even though he _has_ to know that none of it is negative. It's so hard for me to understand how he can be so unaware of what an incredible person he is. He can never trust people when they compliment him; even when he appears to accept praise or even praise himself, I know that he's actually telling himself it's _not_ true.

I know because I've been there myself. I guess I still find myself there more than it's healthy for me to. It's hard for me to believe that I deserve good things, that anyone could genuinely care about me when I view myself so negatively. But I believe _he_ loves me, for better or worse. And I know that if he's going to trust anyone when it comes to disproving all this self-doubt he's drowning it, it's me.

But not if I give up before he _truly_ hears me.

"You're not disposable. You're the furthest thing from disposable. People like you don't come along every day, believe me, I know. I've been all over the world and I've never met anyone else like you. No one else ever made me believe that it was okay to be myself, that it was _better_ to be myself, that I was enough. _You_ helped me see that, you helped me change my _whole_ life. You've helped me through some of the most difficult things I've ever had to deal with, you helped _our_ kids heal from the worst thing that they've ever been through. They _love_ you. They think you're incredible, and so do I. You made us a family again, Tommy. _You_. No one else. No one else could have done it. You're the best thing that could have possibly happened to us."

He's silent for the longest time, and it's impossible to tell if he's really listening to what I'm saying, or if all of the negative voices in his head are screaming too loudly for him to hear a word of it. Until finally, he takes a deep breath and looks up at me. And the second our eyes meet, I _know_ I've gotten through to him.

"Ditto."

I cup his cheek gently in my hand, drawing him nearer and kissing him softly. He reaches up, his fingers curling around my forearm and holding me close. His grip is so tight that it almost hurts, which only makes it clearer to me what he's feeling right now.

It's like he's holding onto my heart instead.

As our lips part, I linger mere inches away. My forehead rests lightly against his as I listen to his soft, unsteady breathing in the still night air around us, wishing I had the words to make this right.

"I'm sorry you feel like this."

He shakes his head faintly, opening his eyes to look into mine again. " _I'm_ sorry I let stupid shit get to me."

"It's not stupid. It bothers you-"

"But it shouldn't. I should just suck it up and be grateful that I even get to play music at all."

Now it's my turn to shake my head in disagreement. "It's not unreasonable to want to be more than someone else's backing guitarist."

"What else am I supposed be?" He asks me sincerely, because he still has no idea of his own potential. "No one's gonna pay to see me play. No one's gonna buy my music."

"They already _did_. No offense to Mike, but do you really believe that EP you guys put out would have sold even half as many copies as it did if _you_ hadn't been involved?"

"I don't know..."

"Well _I_ do. People _will_ pay to hear your music, whether it's on iTunes or in a bar somewhere. People will come to see you play, people who have no idea who you are will _stay_ to see you play. I _promise_ you. Maybe you're not gonna be selling out arenas or topping the billboard charts, but that shit doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're happy. And if making your own music and playing your own music would make you happy, then _do_ it." He smiles shyly, he quite possibly even blushes at the very suggestion, and I see him starting to shake his head again in protest, so I cut him off before he can tell me that it's never going to happen. "There's nothing and no one stopping you, baby."

"I don't even know if that's what I want, though. I have _no_ fucking idea."

"Okay, well...take your time and figure it out. But don't you _dare_ settle for something that makes you feel like less than you are. Because the guy I fell in love with never gave up on his dreams, no matter what happened and no matter how many people said he was crazy. And I'm pretty sure you're him... right?"

"Right." He chuckles softly, giving my shin a playful nudge with his knee.  

"I just want you to know that I'm here, okay? If there's anything I can do, I'll do it. If you want my opinion on a song, or help with writing or recording, or if you need me to make some calls... or if you just want me to back off and not be involved in this _at all_ so that you'll _know_ whatever you do is one hundred percent _yours_ -"

"Taylor?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up." The words pass his lips as a near whisper, sounding so tender and full of affection that they may as well have been an "I love you". Knowing him, that's probably exactly what they were. And his kiss only confirms it. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Everything."

I want to tell him that he doesn't need to thank me, but he won't let me get away with that. I know I wouldn't accept the same sentiment from him without a fight if the tables were turned. So instead of fighting, I surrender, coaxing him into another lingering kiss.

Giving in to him is _always_ more satisfying in the end, anyway.

"Ditto."                                              

 


End file.
